


The Love Right Here

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asking demons for advice on love may not be the best idea, Driving, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Adam asks for some driving lessons in the Bentley. Aziraphale has tea with Mrs. Young and Anathema. It's all very human and mortal.





	The Love Right Here

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot about this fic I started last month so I figured I'd try and finish it up! 
> 
> -M

_These are the days of our lives_  
_They've flown in the swiftness of time_  
_These days are all gone now but some things remain_  
_When I look and I find, no change_

_Those were the days of our lives, yeah_  
_The bad things in life were so few_  
_Those days are all gone now but one thing's still true_  
_When I look and I find, I still love you_  
_I still love you_

_-_ Queen

* * *

“Uncle Aziraphale? Do you think Uncle Crowley could teach me how to drive?”

Adam Young’s voice cracks on the last word and the angel smiles gently at the thought of their godson becoming a young man. Neither of them had been entirely sure how an Antichrist would handle puberty, but so far everything had seemed quite normal. Well. As normal as occult beings going through growth spurts could be, that is.

He glances around his bookshop, sunlight streaming through the rippled glass panes, to drape books, plants and a particular leggy demon and his smile grows slightly more crooked.

“My dear boy, it is so good to hear from you,” he says, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear and waving to the young lady slipping through the door and heading straight for the romance section; she blushes and nearly trips over Crowley, blush deepening further when the demon glances at her over the edges of his sunglasses.

Aziraphale’s light blue eyes start to sparkle with dark humor and Crowley, sensing something disastrous is about to occur, glances away from the girl and sets his copy of Dorian Gray down. His worried frown is enough to make the angel almost start snickering into the handset. “Your Uncle Crowley would be absolutely tickled to teach you how to drive!” he boldly exclaims.

“What?!” Crowley squawks, long legs falling with a thud from his ottoman of piled books and the demon unfolds himself in one smooth motion, even as their godson on the other line starts to whoop and thank them profusely.

Aziraphale chuckles and ducking Crowley’s grasping hands, he tells their godson that they’ll be by sometime Thursday afternoon, probably close to tea and that he’ll be sure the Bentley has every safety feature Mrs. Young could ever hope for.

The 16 year-old anti-Antichrist whoops again, yells to his parents that the uncles are coming by on Thursday for tea and a driving lesson and then breathlessly gushes, “I can’t wait to see Pepper’s face when I drive by her house in the Bentley!”

Aziraphale, gazing up into the black lenses of his demon’s sunglasses, chuckles. “I’m sure your Uncle Crowley will be willing to give the Them a few driving pointers as well, if they’re interested, my boy,” he says, smirking when Crowley blanches and his jaw pops open on a wordless protest.

He pats the demon’s cheek, gives their general greetings to the boy’s parents and then, still gazing up into Crowley’s stunned face, he sets the receiver down with a decisive clatter.

“Chin up, my dear,” he says, tapping Crowley’s angular chin and reaching up on his tiptoes to press a light kiss to the corner of his demon’s lips. “You must have known this was coming. Those children just love your old car. And I rather think it loves them right back.”  
Before Crowley can protest or come up with any sort of intelligible rebuttal, Aziraphale kisses him lightly once more and bustles over to the young lady perusing the romance novels.

“My dear!” he says to her, smiling gently when she jumps nearly a foot in the air and clutches a particularly naughty looking Harlequin to her chest. “If you need any recommendations, do not hesitate to ask my black-clad associate standing over there, catching flies with his mouth.” He winks, smiling at another indignant wordless sputter at his back and pats her lightly on the shoulder. “He quite fancies bodice rippers you know.”

And before Crowley can toss a few curses in his direction, he moves on to the kitchenette and the pot of tea he has a sudden craving for.

The demon sighs in a rather put upon manner when the young woman glances his way, large eyes lit hopefully behind the clear frames of her glasses.

“Yes, yes, all right,” he grumbles, glaring in the general direction of the kitchenette and the kettle whistling happily now. “I suppose you like Regency historical romances don’t you? None of them even remotely accurate. Fine.”

Aziraphale smiles gently at his kettle, barely listening as the background noise of his demon discussing the various pros and cons of historical romances washes over him.

It’s all rather domestic, isn’t it?

**

Tadfield is blessed with many wide, country lanes. There isn’t a lot of lorry traffic around the village. Most of the villagers ride bicycles about their daily lives. The few cars there are, are stored in garages and used infrequently.

It’s rather the perfect place for a young boy and his dog to drive about in a rather cantankerous boat of an ancient car.

“Right,” Crowley snaps the moment Adam skids to a halt in the gravel drive before them. “First things first, you will stand here and listen to me tell you all of the rules of driving my car before you even set your skinny bottom on its front seat. Understood?”

Adam, fairly bouncing on the balls of his feet, nods furiously.

Even Dog, cowed by the dangerous tone in Crowley’s voice, nods.

Aziraphale, his hand placed gently around the other man’s waist, shares a worried look with Anathema Device-Pulsifer. The little girl in her arms giggles and waves furiously at Aziraphale-who waves back.

“Really, Adam,” the witch says, her voice concerned. She glances at Crowley with a wince when the demon bares his teeth at Dog. “I’m sure Newton would be willing to teach you how to dri-”

“He isn’t learning how to drive that-that-three-wheeled monstrosity,” Crowley snarls, drawing himself up to his full height and fairly spitting at the thought. “Adam won’t be caught dead in that blue tricycle while I’m still walking on this planet.”

“It really isn’t that bad,” Anathema mutters, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Aziraphale? Can I offer some tea and cakes? I feel like this ‘driving lesson’ is going to be a tad bit more fraught than any of us expected it to be.”

Aziraphale, smiling privately to himself when he catches sight of his demon’s sparkling golden eyes around the edges of his glasses, pulls Anathema’s daughter into his arms and bounces the little girl gently.

“I would absolutely adore some tea and cakes, my sweet Anathema,” he gushes, booping the giggling babe’s nose and shooting a warning glance in Crowley’s direction. “Let us leave these two, to it then.” He pats Crowley’s bottom as he walks by, lips curling when the demon emits a faint squawk of protest and he leans up to whisper in his tattooed ear, “Be nice, my dear.”

Another wink in his speechless counterpart’s direction and he hurries off in Anathema’s wake, lips still curled in his all-knowing smirk.

“So, little Agnes, what have you been teething on this week? Oh, your father’s witch hunting scissors are not safe for even you, my sweet! You mustn’t put those in your wee little mouth,” he gushes to the little girl, as he makes his way into the garden.

In the background, Crowley’s long-winded lecture about the Bentley’s delicate sensibilities washes over them and he chuckles, placing a gentle kiss in dark, baby curls.

“He is far more concerned over that blasted automobile than his own well-being,” he mutters to no one in particular and chuckles when the little girl in his arm babbles in agreement, her chubby baby fingers curling in his collar.

“Well! What are we having for tea today, my dear occultist?” he asks Anathema when she leads him to the patio where Mrs. Young fretfully knits a hideous maroon sweater. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Young!” he gushes, bowing over her and placing a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. She smiles up at him, her eyes soft and pleased at the sight of the little girl tucking herself under his chin.

“Little Agnes seems taken with you, Mr. Fell,” she says, setting her knitting aside for tea and a cucumber sandwich when Anathema offers it to her. “You and Mr. Crowley would make such great fathers, I have always said so since you took our Adam under your wing.”

Aziraphale, in the process of raising his own cup of steaming Earl Grey to his lips, pauses, light blue eyes flying wide as the dual connotations of her words washes over him.

And he sputters.

“Mrs. Young,” Anathema scolds, taking Agnes into her arms with her own certain, private smile curling her lips. Her dark eyes hold a certain knowledge that Aziraphale has grown quite familiar with over the past few years of their friendship.

The fingers of premonition trail up his spine, drifting along the invisible lines of his wings, tucked away in the ethereal plane.

And he takes a rather large gulp of tea.

“Ladies,” he chokes, cheeks warming as the women giggle and the sound of his demon’s exasperated voice becomes lost in the throaty growl of the Bentley’s engine. “I rather-it’s nothing-I-These cakes are quite delicious Anathema!”

The women continue to chuckle, their eyes bright with humor and he sighs to himself, knowing he’s going to have to have a discussion with his dear counterpart, sometime very soon.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs to himself, ducking his head as his cheeks warm.

**

“Uncle Crowley?”

The demon, in the process of winding up for another heated lecture about how double pressing the clutch when shifting was absolutely essential, sputters and glances over at the young man sitting beside him.

Adam Young’s eyes are fixed on the road ahead, his lower lip caught between his teeth and his young brow is furrowed in such a way that no Antichrist’s brow should ever be.

Crowley’s heart hammers a bit forcefully against his rib cage and he instinctively reaches up to remove his sunglasses.

“Adam?” he asks, his voice notably devoid of his usual drawling, bored tones. “Something up?”

The Bentley begins to slow-whether at the boy’s urging or on some instinctual part of the car, Crowley isn’t sure-and he reaches over absently to flick the hazards on. The brakes hiss as the hulking car comes to a halt and Adam pulls the handbrake, locking the auto in place.

With a sigh, he leans forward, folding his arms across the top of the steering wheel and rests his chin upon them.

“What’s it like?” he asks, eyes fixed on the skudding rainclouds not quite brave enough to settle over Tadfield quite yet.

Crowley cocks a brow and leans back in his seat, idly scratching Dog’s head when the former hellhound settles at his hip.

“What’s what like?” he asks, brow arching ever further up his pale brow when the boy sitting beside him flushes.

That annoying hammer in his chest clatters a bit harder and he shushes it silently, keeping his eyes on the young Antichrist.

Who finally turns his pale eyes in his direction and says, “being in love.”

The world lurches about them, stuttering on its axis, and Crowley’s mouth pops open.

“What-I-Who?” he sputters, pale cheeks splotching in high color and Adam giggles.

“You love Uncle Aziraphale,” the boy says, matter-of-factly. “We all know it. Aunt Anathema knew it before she even met you two, you know.” He turns back to the glowering clouds and taps his fingers on the Bakelite steering wheel, frowning a bit when some of the rainclouds get a bit too close. His lips twitch in a small smile as they skitter away and he nods to himself, quietly pleased. “So what’s it feel like, loving someone so much you’d live with them forever or longer and not let anything stop you from doing so?”

Sixteen years old, their little Antichrist.

And all too knowing.

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath and turns to face the roadway once more, running a nervous fingers through his artfully chaotic hair.

He thinks back over the past six thousand years. All of the late-night bottles of wine he’d shared with the angel. All of the snide commentary that had held far too much care beneath the sharp words. He thinks about soft hand brushes. Gentle kisses in the shadows of the dusty bookshop.

He thinks of waking up to their wings tangled in chaotic twists of white and black, bodies curled together in his bed.

And he smiles.

“You and Pepper finally kicking it off, then?” he asks, glancing at the boy, who blushes and ducks his own head into his folded arms. “About bloody time.”

“Didn’t answer my question,” Adam grumbles, his ears flaming now and Crowley chuckles.

“Remember how to turn the car back on?” he asks, sliding his glasses into place once more. “That’s right, press the clutch in and give her some gas. Not too much now.”

Adam hurries to follow his orders, fingers stumbling only a little bit on the shifter but soon enough the Bentley is barreling (well, it’s more a slow trot compared to how the car is usually driven) and _Somebody to Love_ streams quietly from the car’s speakers.

Neither Crowley nor Adam tells the black auto where they want it to go and Adam blanches when they inevitably come to a stop-also, not of his doing-before a tiny cottage tucked up against the Them’s favorite sledding hill.

The soft roar of the Bentley nearly drowns out the young man’s hammering heart and he glances from the cottage to demon, swallowing heavily when Crowley’s lips curl in a knowing smirk.

“Feel that?” Crowley asks, reaching out to press one bony finger to the boy’s thundering heart. Adam nods, eyes flicking once more to the cottage, its door open now, silhouetting the slender figure standing on its front step. “That’s what being in love feels like,” the demon continues, his voice softening just a hair as he glances over the frames of his glasses to study his young godson. “It feels like your world is ending and beginning, all at the same time, every time you see that special person you care so much for.”

Adam swallows once more, his fingers tightening around black Bakelite and Freddie Mercury begins to croon _Love of My Life_ in the background.

“Every time?” he asks, his voice cracking, pitching between too-low and too-high and Crowley chuckles, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

“Every time,” he says. He glances up to see Pepper hurrying down the front walk, her eyes wide, her wild curls billowing in the wind starting to whip around them and he nudges Adam. “Go on,” he says, reaching across him to open the door. “Go tell her, finally.”

“Adam?” Pepper’s imperious tones reach them finally and Adam takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching closed as he screws up his courage. “Does your mother know you’re driving the Bentley without her? Does Crowley even have a driver’s license?”

He steps free of the car, Dog careening past them, barking and dancing at their heels and as Pepper straightens and begins to cross her arms across her chest, he blurts, “Pepper-I-I love you!”

And before demon or young lady can blink, he grips her upper arms gently in his hands, rises up on his tiptoes and plants his lips firmly on her own.

The kiss isn’t anything Crowley would call poetic. It’s not one for the history books. Will Shakespeare would call it simple and undramatic and call for a resetting of the stage.

But the demon smiles when the girl gasps, her eyes flying wide for a moment before slitting closed. Her hands rise to cup Adam Young’s cheeks and the Bentley purrs it’s approval, _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ now blasting from its speakers.

Adam groans, his fingers flicking gently, tangling for a moment in Pepper’s curls and the gaping driver’s side door slams closed, cutting the heavy bass of Queen off with a decisive thud.

“Right,” the demon says, clearing his throat and taking up his rightful spot behind the steering wheel. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

The Bentley’s engine roars, wheels biting at gravel as the hulking car peels away from the two teenagers now snogging heartily on Pepper’s front walk.

**

 _I’m in Love with My Car_ plays cheekily during the drive-not that Crowley minds-but as the Bentley once more skids to a halt before the Young’s quaint little home and the sight of Aziraphale laughing with Anathema on the front walk, his arms full of leftover cakes, Love of My Life once more purrs through the car.

“All right, all right,” Crowley grumbles, shoving his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Keep it in your pants, you bat.”

And he steps free of the car.

“Angel?” he calls, lips curled in a small smile when Aziraphale’s bright eyes meet his and the angel’s smile softens at the sight of the demon holding his door open for him. “Ready to head back?”

Aziraphale’s hand slides into his, soft and small, plump in just the right ways. Much like the angel himself. And Crowley’s heart does that funny little hammer routine once more.

Just like it always does.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says, leaning up on his tiptoes to press a light kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Have a nice drive with Adam?”

Crowley flushes waves once at Anathema, watching them with a knowing, loving smile on her lips and snorts.

“Could say that I suppose,” he mutters, helping Aziraphale into the car. “The kid’s going to be an absolute menace on the road when he finally gets his license.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighs, already reaching for a leftover cake and taking a small bite as the door closes on him. “I’m sure with a teacher like you, though, we could expect nothing less, right?”

The Bentley seems to chuckle at that, rumbling as Crowley settles in the front seat and the demon snorts.

“What were you lot giggling about in the Young’s garden this afternoon?” he asks, once they’ve left the outskirts of Tadfield and are well on their way back home.

He sprawls, barely steering with the tips of his fingers as the blasted car barrels down the lane towards London and Aziraphale swallows a feeble curse as they very narrowly misses a little old lady crossing the street.

“My dear, must you speed through these twisting roads? You’re like to kill someone,” he murmurs, gripping the leather strap that had materialized for his particular use after a very harrowing drive through Paris back in the late 80s.

Crowley snorts. “They should know every time they cross a lane could be their last,” he grumbles but the car does begin to slow, speedometer inching ever downwards to a respectable 90 km/h.

Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief and pats the Bentley’s dash gently. “So,” Crowley drawls, turning to face the angel fully. He glances over the edge of his black glasses and cocks a brow. “What were you biddies giggling about back there?”

The angel is quiet for a long moment, his hands tight about the plate of cakes once more but then, as the Bentley roars on and Crowley’s eyes sharpen just a bit too much, he smiles.

“I love you, you know,” he says, reaching out to stroke the demon’s cheek. He removes the dark glasses, like he sometimes does when he wants to have a serious one-on-one chat with the demon.

Crowley’s brows shoot up his forehead, striving to vanish in his chaotically quaffed hair and he snorts.

“I hope you’re not just realizing that right now, angel,” he says, lips quirking in a small, sideways grin. "Six thousand years and all that. Plus an apocalypse in between."

Slitted golden eyes sparkle as Aziraphale chuckles.

“Yes I know. I just, rather thought I should remind you tonight,” the angel muses, fiddling with the glasses he rests upon the cellophaned cakes. “Plus I rather think the others are getting antsy over us, you know.”

He chuckles again.

“Mrs. Young said we’d make excellent fathers, today.”

Crowley gapes at him for a moment and then starts to laugh, head tossed back on the back of his driver’s seat, tears streaming along the sharp angles of his cheeks.

“Whoever bless it,” he snickers finally. “If only they knew how we botched it up the last time we took on a kid.”

Aziraphale’s smile is soft, benevolent.

“Indeed,” he says, reaching out to grip his demon’s hand tightly in his own. “I rather like us as we are right now.”

Crowley’s fingers stroke along his knuckles, ever so gently and the demon’s smile is nearly as soft as the angel’s.

“Domestic?” he asks finally as London’s lights begin to glow on the horizon and the Bentley purrs contentedly at 70 km/h and _These Are the Days of Our Lives_ plays quietly in the background.

“Together,” Aziraphale supplies, resting his head upon the demon’s shoulder.


End file.
